


Ghosts That We Knew

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Depression, F/M, Insomnia, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide, generally just lots of mental health issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-03-19 15:47:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3615498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being admitted to a psychiatric hospital, Sam must come to terms with the events that led to his admission, as well as his relationships with his brother, himself, and fellow patient Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The past few days had passed in a kind of haze, like he was being held under in frigid water while the rest of the world carried on around him, and somehow, he managed not to drown. He remembered hearing snippets of conversation, most of them including some variation of his name along with a slew of long, technical terms that Sam didn’t have the energy nor desire to pay attention to. Dean was there at some point, he knew--he had distinctly heard Dean’s voice--and he remembered a pressure in his stomach and his throat that hurt--but then again, everything hurt and it was hard to tell his stomach from his head and his head from his arms and his arms from his chest. He remembered voices, and Dean, and pain, and being cold. The rest was all kind of a blur. A nice, easy blur.

Sam would give anything to be back in that haze now.

Things had been nice then--quiet. It was too loud now, even with the radio off and Dean driving wordlessly in the seat beside him. Every individual piece of gravel crunching beneath the car’s tires made Sam flinch, the slightest bump or turn of the car intensifying the already severe throbbing behind his skull. He pressed absently at his left palm and stared out the window at the flat Kansas plains flying past.

“You keep doin’ that and you’re gonna tear your stitches.”

Sam blinked, pulled away from his thoughts by Dean’s rough voice. He glanced away from the window and to his left hand, where little dots of red had started to seep through the fresh white gauze.

“Sorry.”

Dean changed lanes in preparation for the upcoming exit and sighed before letting the car fall back into silence. He glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye every couple of miles for the rest of the drive, but didn’t speak again until they passed a sign that read Welcome to Topeka.

“So,” he started, then cleared his throat and tried again. “So. I was readin’ through that brochure they gave you in Lawrence. It said visiting hours at this place are three to six on Fridays and noon to five on Saturdays and Sundays.”

Sam nodded, eyes still fixed out the window.

“I already told Lisa I’m gonna come up on Saturday to see you, if that’s cool,” Dean continued. “It’s only a half-hour drive, so I should be able to come at least once a weekend, maybe more. Might even bring Lisa or Ben with me sometime.” As an afterthought he added, “Only if you wanna see them, though.”

_More like if you want them to see you_ , Sam corrected him internally, a hint of bitterness slipping in through his tired thoughts. _Locked up in a mental ward with bandages on your wrists like some kind of psychopathic invalid._

Well, the bandages were technically on his hands. But still.

“Yeah,” Sam replied, his voice coming out flat despite his attempt at sincerity. “That’d be great.”

The car fell silent again as the Impala rolled down the streets of Topeka, quiet and mostly empty on the Sunday afternoon. Sam kept his thoughts idle, focusing on the passing buildings and cars until somewhere near downtown, they turned into the parking lot of a building that Sam recognized from the same brochure Dean had mentioned earlier.

A sign on the front lawn advertised it as “Kansas State Psychiatric Center - Adult Ward.” It was a short, brick building, only two floors; bars covered the few windows that Sam could see, and yet the grass was planted sparsely with yellow and white flowers, like an attempt at cheeriness that ultimately only made the place look sadder. Sam’s head gave a painful throb; the meds they gave him at the Lawrence hospital must’ve been wearing off.

Dean pulled the car into a parking space near the front entrance, in an area marked “patient and family parking,” and then took the keys from the ignition, the engine dying down and leaving them in a silence even more oppressive than the one before. A long minute passed before either of them moved to get out of the car.

Dean was the first to speak. “Well,” he said, slapping the thigh of his jeans with his hand, “I’ll get your stuff out of the trunk.” He climbed out of the car and shut the door behind him, leaving Sam alone in the stifling silence. He sucked in a deep breath, pressed hard on his palm once, then again, and climbed out after his brother.

*

Apart from the gentle rustle of papers, Dr. Tran’s office was completely still, and quiet enough that Sam could hear the doctor’s wristwatch ticking from the other side of the small office. He counted along to the soft _tick-tick-tick_ for a full minute before the doctor finally spoke, putting down the file labeled _Winchester, S._

“Looks like you gave them quite a scare back in Lawrence, Sam,” he said, folding his hands on top of his desk. He and Dean both turned to Sam expectantly, waiting for some kind of answer, but Sam only stared at Dr. Tran’s watch; what was there to say, anyway? I’m sorry?

Dr. Tran cleared his throat and picked up Sam’s file again, rifling through papers that the hospital in Lawrence had transferred over. “It says here that you’ve been having some trouble sleeping. Can you tell me more about that?”

“I already told the doctors in Lawrence everything.”

“Sam,” Dean muttered, almost like a warning. _Don’t try and fight them. They want to help you._ As if he and Sam hadn’t had _that_ conversation enough times.

“It’s alright. I know it can be annoying having to repeat yourself to so many people,” Dr. Tran said. “I’m just trying to get a better understanding of your situation and how I can help, Sam. I hope you understand.”

Sam nodded hesitantly, but kept his eyes low, away from the scrutinizing watch of his brother and the doctor. “I just have trouble falling asleep,” he explained dismissively, staring at his hands in his lap. “And I have nightmares sometimes.” He shrugged.

“Are the nightmares about anything in particular? Any recurring themes?”

Sam shook his head. “No,” he lied.

“And when did these sleep problems begin, do you remember?” Dr. Tran asked, opening up his laptop and typing for a few moments before looking back up at Sam.

Sam fiddled with the gauze on his left hand and swallowed. “I guess about two years ago.” He could feel Dean’s eyes boring holes into him.

Dr. Tran started typing again. “How many hours of sleep would you say that you get, on average?”

Sam thought for a minute. He could hear that damn wristwatch again now that the doctor had stopped typing. _Tick-tick-tick._

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “Maybe ten.”

“Ten hours a night?”

“Ten hours a week.”

Dr. Tran nodded and typed some more. _Tick-tick-tick._

“Now,” he began after finally setting his laptop aside. “The records from St. Mary’s say that when you were admitted on Wednesday, you had a blood-alcohol level of .3 percent.”

Sam didn’t respond, so Dean spoke up for him, “That’s correct.”

“That’s... rather high, Sam.” Sam stared at his feet. “Do you or does your family have any history of alcohol or substance abuse?”

Sam’s and Dean’s eyes met briefly before Dean answered for him again. “Uh, well. Our dad was a big drinker for a long time. He died about nine years ago. Stroke.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and cleared his throat before adding, “And I had some issues with it, too, when I was younger. Did AA and everything. But, uh, I’ve been sober for a few years now.”

“What about you personally, Sam?” Dr. Tran inquired. Sam shook his head.

“He’s never been that big on drinking,” Dean elaborated. “Not even in college or at my wedding or anything. In fact, last week was the first time I ever…” He trailed off, his jaw clenching, and Sam was silently grateful.

Dr. Tran nodded understandingly and typed some more notes before turning back to the two of them. “Can you explain to me a bit more about why you were brought into the hospital on Wednesday?”

Sam stared daggers at his feet, pressing hard again and again with his thumb at the stitches in his hand. The gauze covering his palm was steadily growing redder.

“I got drunk. I took a few pills but I had a prescription. I passed out, cut my hand on some glass, and Dean found me. That’s all,” Sam replied coldly. Dean let out a sigh beside him and rubbed a hand across his jaw, muttering, “Jesus, Sam.”

“It seems to me that you took more than just a few,” Dr. Tran said gently.

“Damn right,” Dean spoke up, struggling to contain his frustration. “The whole friggin’ bottle was empty.”

“And what medication was it that you took?” Dr. Tran kept his voice level.

“Ativan,” Sam muttered dejectedly. He felt like a kid being chewed out by his parents- _-do you know why you’re in trouble? Do you know why what you did was wrong? Have you learned your lesson?_

_Yes,_ he wanted to say. _I’ve learned my lesson, I fucked up, now please just let me go._

Dr. Tran picked up one of the papers from Sam’s file and skimmed it. “And this was prescribed for your insomnia by your general practitioner?” Sam nodded. “How long had you been using it before Wednesday?”

“A couple of months.”

“You took it regularly and at the recommended dosage?”

“Yeah.”

“Did it help at all?”

“No.”

“So you took the entire bottle.” Dr. Tran’s voice was void of judgment, simply trying to understand what happened. It made Sam uncomfortable.

“I was tired.”

“I see.” The doctor nodded and scribbled a note onto the paper in Sam’s file before closing the folder and setting it to the side. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to speak with Dean alone for a bit. While we’re talking, I’ll have a nurse show you to your room so you can start settling in. Does that sound alright?”

Sam stiffened in his chair and glanced nervously over at Dean, and then to Dr. Tran. What were they going to talk about? What did they have to say that Sam couldn’t be around to hear? They were going to talk about him, weren’t they? They were going to talk about how fucked up he was and how long he would be locked up here and--

“Sam?” Dean’s voice broke his frantic train of thoughts, and Sam finally managed a nod despite his accelerating heartbeat.

“Will I get to say goodbye?” Sam muttered.

“Yes. Once we’re done talking, you’ll have time to say goodbye to Dean before he leaves,” Dr. Tran replied.

“Okay,” he croaked, and Dr. Tran nodded, standing up and leading Sam out his office door.

Sam followed the doctor down the empty halls of the facility in a dazed stupor, barely processing the white walls and the squeak of his shoes against the linoleum floors. They walked until they reached a nurse’s station near the front entrance to the building, where two young nurses stood quietly chatting and a third typed away at a computer; all three of them looked up as Sam and Dr. Tran rounded the corner.

“Charlie, would you mind showing Sam to his room, maybe help him settle in?” Dr. Tran requested, and one of the two chatting nurses--a young, perky redhead wearing Wonder Woman scrubs and holding a clipboard--nodded cheerily.

“Of course,” she grinned, and with a nod Dr. Tran turned on his heel, retreating back to his office. With the doctor gone, Charlie turned to Sam and introduced herself. “Hi, Sam, I’m Charlie. I’m one of the day nurses here. It’s nice to meet you.”

Sam forced a half-smile that came out as more of a grimace, but she at least pretended not to notice.

“Follow me. I’ll give you the grand tour.” She beckoned him with a nod of her head, and with one last glance over his shoulder at Dr. Tran’s closed office door, Sam trudged behind her down the hallway.

*

Sam’s room was the last stop on their tour of the facility. Charlie had shown him the cafeteria (one that reminded Sam a little too much of high school for comfort) and the bathrooms (the patients were only allowed to use them at certain times throughout the day, which Sam found more than a little ridiculous). They’d passed through a colorful room used for art therapy, where the walls were completely covered by paintings and drawings done by past and current patients. There was a room of phones attached to the walls, where Charlie said he could make phone calls for fifteen minutes each day, and a small courtyard with a greenhouse and a bench amid the drooping flowers and weeds. And then there’d been the rec room, where Sam caught his first glimpse of the other residents of the psych ward; as he and Charlie walked past, a few of the patients--all dressed in simple, solid-colored clothes, with paper bracelets around their wrists that matched Sam’s--had stared at him, watching him with such intensity that Sam crossed his arms over his chest self-consciously, as if it would make him seem smaller. He’d sighed with relief when they left that room to continue the tour.

Now, Charlie led him down a narrow hallway of thick metal doors, each of them with a thin rectangular window up the height of the door and a keypad where there would normally be a doorknob. Charlie came to a stop in front of a door marked 17A, and while she typed a code into the keypad, she explained, “This will be your room. We’ve already moved your bags and everything in here, plus some clothes for you to change into.” The keypad buzzed, and Sam heard the door unlock with a loud click. She pushed open the heavy door and led Sam inside.

The room was cramped, to put it lightly, and empty except for a cot in one corner and a short desk in another. Sam’s duffel bag, packed hastily that morning between his discharge from St. Mary’s and his arrival in Topeka, sat in a heap on the cot, unzipped and noticeably less full than Sam remembered. Beside the bag, a folded stack of clothes similar to those worn by the other patients had been left for Sam to change into. Above the bed was a small window that overlooked the courtyard Charlie had shown him earlier, though considering the window was barely a square foot in area and barred from the outside, the view wasn’t exactly mesmerizing.

If he didn’t know better, Sam would’ve thought it looked like some kind of upscale prison cell.

Sam drifted over to his bags and dug through them, finding that little remained in them apart from his toothbrush, socks, underwear, and a single paperback book--everything else had been removed.

“Where’d all my stuff go?”

Charlie offered an apologetic smile. “It’s standard procedure. We have to make sure you’re not bringing in any items that could be a danger to yourself or others, so a few of your things may have been taken out. Anything that’s been removed will be kept in a locker and given back to you upon discharge.” She took a piece of paper off her clipboard and handed it to Sam. “Here’s a list of all the items we had to remove for safety reasons.”

Sam scanned the list: _books (hard-cover; 3), belts (2), picture frame (1), car keys, spiral notebook (1), pencils (2)._

“What’s dangerous about a pencil?”

“You’d be surprised.”

Sam sighed and placed the list on the cot, staring blankly at his few remaining possessions. Maybe this _was_ a prison.

“Here,” Charlie said, handing Sam a few more papers from her clipboard. “This is a schedule of daily activities. It’ll tell you when you can use the phone, plus meal and bathroom times. And here’s a more in-depth list of facility rules and procedures, just to give you a better idea of how things are run around here. It’s nothing too bad, I promise. No Dementors or anything.” In spite of everything, Sam managed a weak laugh at that.

“I’ll leave you for a few minutes to change clothes and settle in,” she continued. “Dr. Tran should be done with your brother soon and he’ll come in to say goodbye. After that, I’ll come get you for dinner around six. Sound good?”

Sam nodded, and with one last smile, Charlie punched in the key code again and slipped back into the hallway, the door closing and locking behind her.


	2. Chapter 2

Once the door locked behind Charlie, Sam unhurriedly changed into the outfit that had been left on his bed--a pair of white shoes without laces, a white shirt, and cotton pants that hung loose on his hips without the aid of a belt, zipper, or drawstring. The new clothes were thin, and not nearly warm enough considering the air conditioning seemed to be on full-blast throughout the entire building; goosebumps popped up along Sam’s arms as he sat down on the edge of his cot and absently ran his thumb across the gauze on his hand.

He could feel that haze descending upon him again--not as heavy as when he’d taken those pills, but enough that he could shut his mind off for a while as he stared at the blank walls. It felt good, being lost in that grey space where he didn’t have to think about anything and could let his mind glaze over for a while. Maybe a little too good.

Sam wasn’t sure how long he sat like that, motionless on the edge of the bed with his eyes glassy and staring at nothing. Since there wasn’t a clock in his room, it could’ve been hours or mere minutes before he heard the mechanical beeping of the keypad to his room. He turned to the door and stood up slowly as it unlocked, and the door pushed open, revealing Dean, Dr. Tran, and a different nurse Sam didn’t recognize.

“Hey,” Dean muttered, a forced smile on his lips. Sam swallowed as Dean sauntered into the room, the door closing and locking again behind him. He could still see the nurse and Dr. Tran lingering outside the room through the window on the door, speaking in hushed tones and occasionally nodding towards Sam’s room.

“What did you… What did you talk about with the doctor?” Sam asked, turning his attention back to his brother, who was hovering awkwardly in the center of the room, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

Dean shrugged stiffly, trying to appear nonchalant. “Oh, mostly just insurance stuff. You know.” He opened his mouth to add more, but thought better of it at the last minute.

He never had been a good liar.

“So, uh. Like I said, I’ll be here on Saturday to see you,” Dean quickly changed the subject. “And you can call me anytime you want. I’ll make sure my phone’s on.”

Sam nodded, wrapping his arms around himself against the cold blow of the air vent.

“Everyone seems really nice here,” he continued, talking just for the sake of filling the silence. “I think this’ll be good for you.”

Sam said nothing, just stared at his feet.

“Well.” Dean let out a deep exhale. “I guess I should probably get going, then.”

Sam nodded again, and the two of them hesitated for a moment, shifting their weight as they waited for each other to make the first move. Finally, Dean gave in and pulled Sam into a hug, holding his brother close as if it would be months before they saw each other again rather than just a week. Sam clung tightly to him, trying not to cringe at the way Dean’s hands rested delicately on his back, like he was afraid of breaking him.

Because, apparently, that’s what Sam was now--breakable.

Only at the sound of the door clicking unlocked did they finally separate, Dr. Tran and his nurse lingering in the doorway as a not-so-subtle reminder to hurry. Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder one last time and said, “I’ll see you soon, man.” With a half-smile, he turned and let the nurse lead him back down the hallway, leaving Sam alone with the doctor again.

“I see you’ve gotten settled in,” Dr. Tran said, and Sam nodded. “That’s good. I wanted to see if you needed anything from me before I leave for the day.”

Sam considered it for a moment but came up blank.

“Alright, if you’re sure. If you do end up needing something, any of the nurses will be glad to help you,” Dr. Tran assured him. “I’ll check in with you sometime tomorrow and then regularly throughout the week to see how you’re adjusting. Until then--”

Before he could finish, the same nurse from earlier rounded the corner to Sam’s room, this time without Dean at her side. “Excuse me, Dr. Tran,” she said. “I just came to get Sam for dinner.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Dr. Tran nodded and stepped out of the room again, adding over his shoulder, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sam. Believe me when I say the first day is the hardest. It’ll get easier, I promise.” With that, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving Sam alone with the short, brunette nurse.

“Follow me. I’ll show you the cafeteria,” she said, but Sam didn’t move.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You still gotta eat, Sam,” she replied, a slight edge to her tone. “Whether you’re hungry or not.”

“I’d rather just stay in here.”

The nurse--her nametag said “Meg”--sighed and crossed her arms over her chest, looking Sam up and down. Her eyes lingered for a moment on his bandaged hand, and Sam shifted on his feet uncomfortably.

“Well, if you’re not gonna eat,” she said slowly, “at least come meet some of the other patients. And while we’re out, I’ll get you a new bandage for that hand.”

Sam glanced down at the gauze around his palm, reddened and stiff where blood had seeped through and dried. After a moment of hesitation, he acquiesced, and silently followed Meg down the hallway.

*

Most of the seats were already taken by the time Meg led Sam into the cafeteria. The tables were long and narrow, with seats attached, reminding Sam of middle school. Twenty or so patients sat scattered throughout the room, some eating alone and some talking quietly in groups, though the entire room fell silent the moment Sam stepped through the door, a dozen heads turning to stare at him in perfect synchrony. Two young women whispered something inaudible to each other.

“Everyone, this is Sam,” Meg addressed the entire room. Sam felt his face burn with embarrassment; it was like being the new kid in grade school all over again-- _this is Sam, he just moved here, why don’t you tell the class a little about yourself?_

“You all remember how scary your first day was, so let’s try and give Sam a warm welcome, alright?” Meg continued, before looking pointedly at one of the girls that had been whispering in the back. “And yes, I’m talking to you, Claire.”

The girl visibly bristled. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Meg ignored her and turned back to Sam, gesturing for him to sit at the nearest table, already occupied by two male patients. “Take a seat, Sam,” she said. “I’ll get you your food.” Before Sam had time to respond, she turned on her heel and headed off towards a door in the corner that read “Staff Only.”

Sam hesitantly sat down at the table, leaving an empty seat between himself and the other two men, who were eyeing him carefully and then glancing back at each other. He kept his eyes fixed on the table in front of him, head down, shoulders hunched, as if maybe that could protect him from the judgmental stares he could feel boring into him from all directions. Even as the attention in the room gradually turned away from him and people went back to their own conversations, Sam could sense at least one pair of eyes on him at any given time.

“You know, we don’t bite.” The voice came from his right, and Sam warily turned his head to see the two men still looking at him, though their eyes were softer, more concerned than he would’ve expected.

“W-what?” he stuttered.

“I said we don’t bite,” one of them said--a well-built guy about Sam’s age, maybe a few years older, with short-cropped blond hair. “Or at least I don’t. I don’t know if I can say the same about Benny here.”

The other man--even bigger than the first guy--rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you hilarious.” He turned to Sam and held out his hand, introducing himself with a hint of a Cajun accent, “I’m Benny, in case you couldn’t figure that out.”

Sam warily shook Benny’s hand. “Sam.”

“And I’m Cole,” the first guy chimed in. “Nice to meet you, Sam.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Cole reached for Sam’s hand, as well, but was cut off when Meg returned to their table, eyebrows raised as she placed a styrofoam tray of pasta in front of Sam. “Now, Cole, I know my eyes must be playing tricks on me because you would _never_ break the physical contact rule, would you?”

“No, ma’am,” Cole replied, dropping his hand with a saccharine smile. “I would never do that.”

“I thought so.” Meg turned to Sam and handed him a plastic fork. “If you need anything else, come find me or another nurse. I’ll change your bandages when you’re done eating.” With that, she shot Cole one last warning look and stalked off to another table.

Once Meg was out of hearing range, Cole let out a groan. “God, I hate that bitch.”

“Most of the nurses are alright,” Benny said to Sam. “It’s just Meg you gotta watch out for.”

“What’s the ‘physical contact’ rule?” Sam asked, picking disinterestedly at his food.

“Patients aren’t allowed to physically touch each other, no exceptions. The nurses can’t touch us, either, unless they’re restrainin’ you or something,” Benny explained. “Usually it’s not much of a problem--”

“Unless you’re Ruby,” Cole snickered, earning a smirk from Benny.

“Ruby?” Sam asked.

“Over there.” Benny pointed over a few tables, where a dark-haired woman was sitting a little too close to another patient. Just as she reached to put her hand on his knee, Meg appeared and reprimanded her, and she begrudgingly pulled away. “She’s the resident sex addict.”

“And he ain’t just sayin’ that,” Cole chimed in. “That’s why they put her in here. Not that it’s done anything. She ends up in solitary every other day for tryin’ to screw anything that moves.”

“Everything except you,” Benny laughed.

“Shut up!”

As if sensing they were talking about her, Ruby glanced up and met Sam’s gaze, giving him a coy smile. He quickly averted his eyes back to his food. “Oh.” He twirled a bit of pasta around on his fork and raised it to his mouth before changing his mind and putting it back on the tray. “Do you, uh… Do you know why everyone is in here?”

“Mostly,” Benny shrugged. “With most people, ’s not too hard to figure out. Not much to do in here except talk, anyway.”

Sam swallowed and moved his bandaged hand to his lap, out of view.

“Ruby’s the main one you gotta watch out for,” Cole muttered. “Her and Lucifer.” He pointed discreetly to the back corner of the room, where a short blond man sat isolated from the other patients, glaring daggers at his tray.

Sam’s eyes widened. “His name is Lucifer?”

“That’s not his real name,” Benny said, “but call him anything else and you ain’t gonna like what happens. He’s a real psycho. Always babblin’ on about the apocalypse and how he’s gonna take over the world with his army of demons. I suggest steering clear of him.”

Sam swallowed and shrank back in his seat, feeling less and less like he should be here. He thought about Dean, who was probably already back in Lawrence by now, sitting down on his couch with his wife and kid and apple-pie life that would be completely perfect if it wasn’t for his psycho brother throwing it all off. He thought of what might have happened if his parents were still alive, if his dad had been the one to find him passed out on the bathroom floor with an empty bottle of pills instead of Dean, how he’d probably slap Sam across the face and tell him to get his shit together and stop looking for attention. He thought about what his mom might say if she could see him like this, what Jess might say if she were still--

_No._

_No. Don’t think about Jess. Don’t._

“Sammy?” Cole spoke up, and Sam might’ve snapped and told him not to call him that if he wasn’t using all his energy to press down on the stitches in his left hand so that the pain was the only thing he could think about. “You okay, kid? You’re lookin’ kinda pale.” As he spoke, the rest of the patients stood from their tables and push their chairs in, dumping their empty trays into trash bins and filtering out through the door.

Sam nodded shakily, trying to find his voice, but Meg appeared behind him before he had the chance to croak out an answer.

“Alright, dinner’s over,” she said, her stern voice directed at Cole and Benny. “I don’t care where y’all go, but you can’t be in here. Sam, you come with me.”

Grumbling as they went, Benny and Cole tossed their trays into a nearby trashcan and shuffled out the door. Benny gave Sam one last look before disappearing into the rec room and leaving Sam and Meg alone in the now-empty cafeteria. Meg took Sam’s tray from him and frowned down at it--he hadn’t even taken a bite--but tossed it into the trash for him, anyway.

“You know, we’re required to tell your doctor if you’re not eating. Keep it up and they’ll feed you through a tube in your nose,” she chastised, though her voice was a touch gentler than with the others, maybe because she could see his hands trembling in his lap, hear his labored breathing. She let out a sigh and said, “Come on, let’s get those bandages changed.” Sam barely managed to nod and follow her out on trembling legs.

*

Meg led Sam into an examination room, the same one where they’d taken him when he first arrived to get his weights and vitals. She worked quietly, her hands surprisingly gentle compared to the harsh aura she seemed to give off, and Sam felt himself slowly coming down from his panic. He focused on the meticulous movements of her fingers as they cleaned his palm with antiseptic and rewrapped it in fresh gauze.

“Just saying, that thing would heal a hell of a lot faster if you weren’t always messing with it,” she said, taping off the end of the gauze and tossing the old bandage in the receptacle. Sam didn’t respond, just jumped off the exam table and ran his thumb gently over the new bandage as he followed her back out into the hall.

Most of the other patients were already in the rec room by the time Sam walked in, Meg abandoning his side to speak with another nurse. In one corner, three patients were playing a solemn game of Yahtzee; several people read books on their own, while others carried on conversations together at the many tables scattered throughout the room. The man supposedly named Lucifer sat in one corner, silently glaring at everyone else; Sam purposely moved to the side of the room opposite him. He took a seat at one of the empty tables and sank into the wooden chair, arms crossed securely over his chest.

“Hey, new guy!”

Sam looked up in the direction of the voice and found a young girl at the table next to his studying him carefully. Even with half of her head braided into cornrows and black eyeliner smeared around her eyes, she hardly looked old enough to be in an adult ward, and yet the fire in her gaze made Sam sink back further into his chair. “Yeah?”

“What’d you do to your hand?” she demanded, turning in her chair to face him fully. “Y’know, most people go for the wrists when they’re trying to off themselves.”

Sam swallowed, taken aback by her bluntness. “I didn’t--”

“Claire, leave him alone.” A new voice (thankfully) cut him off, and he turned to see another patient sitting across from Claire, a game of Scrabble on the table between them. The man couldn’t have been much older than Sam, but the deep shadows beneath his soft blue eyes made him seem much older, well-worn almost. He looked… tired, mostly. Still, he smiled kindly at Sam. Sam was too flustered to smile back, but he tried to convey his appreciation through his eyes. The man seemed to understand.\

“What are you, my father?” the girl, Claire, scoffed, before shoving herself away from the table and marching off the opposite end of the room.

Sam stared after her for a moment before turning back to the man who had come to his aid. He was watching Sam with gentle interest, and he offered a half-smile when Sam met his gaze.

“Sorry about her. She can be a bit… brusque,” he said. “Your name is Sam, right?”

Sam nodded.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sam. I’m Castiel.” He added, “You can call me Cas, though.”

Sam managed a weak smile in return. “Nice to meet you.”

“Since my partner seems to have abandoned our game, would you like to play Scrabble with me?” he offered. Sam considered it for a moment before nodding slowly, and the man’s smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Sam hesitantly moved to Claire’s seat and rested his hands in his lap while Cas doled out seven letters to each of them.

They didn’t talk much while they played, and Sam appreciated that Cas didn’t push him to talk about himself or anything unrelated to the game. To his own surprise, he found himself relaxing a bit as the game stretched on, able to tune out his thoughts of _Dean_ and _Jess_ and _psycho in a mental hospital_ and just focus on the simple rules of the game.

*

Later that night, after each patient had been given time in the communal bathroom to brush their teeth and get ready for bed, Sam sat in his empty room once again, shivering beneath the air conditioner and staring at the moon through the tiny window above his bed.

The door unlocked, and a male nurse Sam had briefly talked to--he remembered his name was Garth--came in with two small plastic cups in his hand--one filled with water, the other containing two little, yellow pills. He handed the cups over to Sam and explained, “These are your nighttime meds, prescribed by Dr. Tran. They should make it a little easier for you to sleep.”

_I highly doubt it,_ Sam thought, swirling the water around in the cup. Still, he nodded and tentatively swallowed the pills with a gulp of water.

He handed the cups back to the nurse, but Garth hesitated for a moment. “One more thing,” he said. “We’re required to do a mouth check anytime you take any medication. You know, just to make sure you’re taking your meds and not... hiding them.”

Sam felt something like shame burning at his cheeks, but he complied, and when Garth finally left, he curled up on his bed and buried his face into his pillow.

At ten o’clock, the lights in all the bedrooms clicked off in unison, though the hall light remained on. Every few minutes, Sam could see one of the nurses patrolling the halls, peeping in through the little window on the door to check if he was asleep.

Sam closed his eyes, and it didn’t take long for him to feel the effect of the medication, leaving his limbs heavy and his thoughts jumbled. But he didn’t sleep, not at all.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger warning for an eating disorder, though the mention is very, very brief.

When the lights in Sam’s room automatically clicked on again, the sun hadn’t yet risen outside his tiny window. Sam squinted against the sudden assault of the fluorescent lighting and sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his unbandaged hand.

Down the hall, he could hear the telltale beeps and clicks of the other patients’ rooms being unlocked, and it didn’t take long for Garth to appear at his door and punch in the code. He swung open the door with a far-too-cheery “Good morning!”

“What time is it?” Sam mumbled, standing up on wobbly legs. The medicine they’d given him the night before had yet to completely wear off, leaving him heavy-limbed and desperate for more time in bed, even if he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep.

“Five thirty a.m.,” Garth replied, his chipper voice loud enough to hurt Sam’s unadjusted ears. He tried not to cringe as Garth continued, “Time to get up. If you hurry, maybe you’ll get first shower.”

Sam slipped on the pair of white shoes he’d been given the day before and trudged into the hallway, where Garth had already moved on to unlock the next door. Several other patients had emerged from their rooms, as well, all in varying levels of disarray, squinting in the bright hallway and moving like zombies in multiple directions. Before Sam had the chance to follow suit, one of the night nurses unlocked the door directly across the hall from his, and out stepped Castiel, the same man Sam had played Scrabble with the night before.

“Oh, good morning, Sam,” Cas greeted him with a tired but genuine smile. How he could smile this early in the morning, Sam had no clue, but he managed a weak “morning” in response. “I didn’t realize we were neighbors.”

“Me neither,” Sam muttered. He hesitated a brief moment before admitting, “I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing right now.”

“Don’t worry,” Cas assured him. “I’ll show you.”

Sam gratefully allowed Cas to guide him through the morning, following him first to the cafeteria for breakfast. They ate at the same table, speaking sparingly, and Sam managed to get down a few bites of cereal before he started to feel sick again and gave up. Afterwards, Cas showed him where to find towels so he could shower and a new change of clothes exactly like the ones he’d fallen asleep in. Once Sam was dressed again, Cas led him to a medicine cart down the hall, where one of the nurses gave him a little plastic cup marked “Sam W.”

Sam looked down at the two brightly-colored pills inside the cup and furrowed his brow. Before he had the chance to ask, the nurse piped up, “Dr. Tran has you starting off with ten milligrams of Prozac and five milligrams of Zyprexa. You can ask him any questions you have when you meet with him later today.”

A line of patients had started to form behind him, and one yelled for Sam to hurry up, so he downed the pills and the cup of water, let the nurse check his mouth, and shuffled back down the hall.

Cas had been first in line for the medicine cart after Sam, and Sam considered waiting off to the side of the cart for him, feeling slightly like a lost puppy following around anyone who showed him the slightest bit of kindness. Before Cas could join him again, though, the patient named Cole appeared and gestured for Sam to follow him.

Sam glanced over his shoulder at Cas--he was still talking to the nurse about something, his back turned to Sam--before hesitantly following Cole towards the rec room, where several other patients lounged around.

“Hey, Sammy,” Cole greeted him, a hint of insincerity in his cheerful tone.

Sam cringed at the nickname. “It’s just Sam.”

“Oh,” Cole said, glancing at Sam from the corner of his eye. “Alright. Just Sam. How was your first night?”

Cole stopped at one of the rec room tables and took a seat, gesturing for Sam to follow suit. Sam shrugged as he took a seat, grimacing a little as he replied, “It was okay.”

“Don’t have to lie to me, man,” Cole chuckled. “I know it sucked ass.”

Sam nodded slowly and looked to where his hands were folded in his lap. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Anyway,” Cole continued. “I was just gonna say...” He trailed off and ducked his head a bit, lowering his voice so that only Sam could hear. “I saw you hangin’ out with that Cas guy.”

Sam’s brows furrowed in confusion. What did that have to do with anything? “Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” Cole replied quickly, but there was an edge to his voice that didn’t go unnoticed by Sam. Cole grit his teeth a little, checking over his shoulders to make sure no one was listening in before turning back to continue, “There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just… Well, you might not wanna hang around him, is all.”

Sam’s confusion deepened, and he leaned forward a bit in his seat, straining to hear everything Cole said. “Why not? Is there… is there something wrong with him?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

Sam realized the question was redundant; they were in a mental hospital, for God’s sake, so obviously there must be something wrong with all of them. But judging from Cole’s shifty eyes and clenched jaw, he knew there had to be something notably strange about Cas--something he hadn’t picked up on in his brief interaction with him.

“I don’t know,” Cole admitted, leaning forward on his elbows. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him exactly. Just that he’s been here a long, long time. And he probably ain't leavin' anytime soon.” The thought seemed to bother him, and he shook his head in aggravation.

“Is he... _dangerous_ or something?”

“I don’t know,” Cole repeated with a shrug. “Probably not.”

“Then why do you think I shouldn’t hang around him?” Sam asked. “He seemed perfectly fine to me.” _As fine as someone can be in a place like this,_ he added internally.

“I’m just tryin’ to help you, man,” Cole muttered. “He’s just… he’s not right in the head, you know? I don’t know how else to explain it. He’s crazy.”

“We’re in a psych ward,” Sam replied curtly. “We’re all a little crazy.”

“Yeah, but this guy… He’s _crazy_ crazy. You know what I mean.”

Sam didn’t, and for a reason he couldn’t understand, he could feel himself getting angry, his unbandaged hand clenching into a fist and unclenching again. Why he felt so defensive about Cas, he had no idea; he barely even _knew_ the guy, but he felt like he knew enough to know that Cas seemed like a genuine, kind person. He definitely didn’t deserve any of Cole’s unsupported accusations. The more he talked, the less Sam liked this Cole guy.

“I think I can decide for myself who’s worth talking to, thanks,” Sam snapped. Cole seemed taken back by Sam’s outburst, and even Sam was a little surprised at himself, but he stood by his statement. Cole leaned back in his chair and shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m sure you can,” he said. “I’m just trying to give you a heads up. There’s something wrong with the guy. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

With that, Cole pushed back his chair and stalked away, leaving Sam alone once more.

*

It didn’t take long for Cas to find Sam again. He stepped into the rec room and met Sam’s gaze across the room, his face lighting up as he moved to join Sam at the same table where he’d spoken with Cole.

“Hello, Sam,” Cas greeted him. “I was looking for you.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Sam muttered distractedly.

Cas moved to sit across from him, in the same chair where Cole had sat earlier. As he took a seat, Sam eyed Cas up and down, taking note of his every movement in an attempt to find something that justified Cole’s claim of him being “not right.” But as far as Sam could tell, Cas was just a normal guy; nothing seemed “off” about him at all. He was dressed in the same white shirt and pants as all the patients, and despite his unkempt hair, everything else about him appeared neat and clean. Though slightly shadowed, his eyes were bright, piercing even, and since he arrived at the center, Sam hadn’t seen anyone smile as much as Cas. For a guy in a ward full of basket cases and suicide risks, he seemed like the most normal person there.

“Is something wrong?” Cas asked, snapping Sam out of his thoughts. He blinked and quickly looked down at his hands, his face burning as he shook his head.

“Uh, no. Nothing. I just… spaced out.”

“I understand,” Cas nodded. “Has anyone talked to you about the schedule here yet?”

“Sort of,” Sam replied. “I got a schedule yesterday, but I haven’t really looked at it.”

“That’s alright,” Cas smiled. That seemed to be his default setting--smiling. It was somehow off-putting and intriguing all at once. “It takes a few days to get into the swing of things, anyway. You’ll adjust soon enough.”

Sam thought back to what Cole had said earlier--that he knew Cas had been in the ward for a while. He wondered what length of time constituted as “a while,” but decided not to ask; that seemed taboo, like asking someone in prison what they got arrested for.

“Anyway, since today is Monday, we have group therapy in the morning,” Cas continued. “I just wanted to say that you can sit with me if you’d like. It can be somewhat intimidating your first time.”

“Group therapy?”

Sam’s mind flooded with images of people seated around a circle, cliched affirmations flying from their mouths--”Welcome, we support you, thank you for sharing.” Most of what Sam knew of group therapy came from movies, and though Sam had a feeling the therapy session wouldn’t end with the patients all grabbing hands to sing a verse of “no day but today,” he didn’t know what else to expect. Back what felt like decades ago when Dean was in AA, Sam had gone to a meeting or two with him as Dean’s sponsor, but he had been more of an observer then than a participant. He had listened to the other recovering alcoholics’ stories and stayed silent when the group leader asked if he had anything to say about his brother’s “journey.” Back then, it had been about Dean, about supporting his brother. Now that it was about _Sam,_ he wasn’t entirely sure what to think.

“Yes,” Cas affirmed. “Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays we have group therapy in the morning, and Tuesdays and Thursdays we do art therapy.”

Art therapy. Now that sounded like something Sam could handle. He could draw stick figures and basic flowers all day long if it meant he didn’t have to talk openly to strangers about his “feelings.”

“Huh.”

“It’s not so bad,” Cas assured him with a shrug. “I actually enjoy it. It's... interesting. But like I said, the first session is always a little nerve-wracking, so if you’d like--”

“Alright, everyone circle up.” The day nurse Charlie seemed to appear out of nowhere, herding a group of grumbling patients towards the center of the rec room. A couple of the tables and couches had been moved out of the way and replaced by a lopsided circle of foldable chairs, where the patients began taking seats.

Cas stood from the table and gestured for Sam to follow. Sam took an empty seat between Cas and a young girl he barely recognized from breakfast that morning; just like Meg had warned him of at dinner the night before, a thin, clear feeding tube stuck out from her nose and was attached to something like a portable IV drip beside her. She gave Sam a once-over with wide, hollow eyes before turning the other way to talk to the person on her opposite side.

Slowly the rest of the patients filtered in until all the chairs were taken. Charlie and two other nurses joined in the circle, as well, watching the patients like hawks from their seats.

“As you all know, we have a new group member joining us today,” Charlie announced, and Sam instantly blanched, sinking back into his seat as he felt every eye in the room turn to him. “Welcome, Sam.”

The other patients repeated her sentiment in an unenthusiastic chorus of “Welcome, Sam.” Sam kept his eyes down on his feet, hoping that maybe if he didn’t make eye contact, people would stop staring.

“So, who wants to start today?” Charlie asked, and she held up what looked like a cardboard tube covered in glitter. If Sam squinted, he could see that “Talking Stick” had been written on the side in magic marker.

_They have a talking stick,_ Sam thought in disbelief. Christ, it was like being in kindergarten.

Luckily, the focus in the room seemed to have shifted away from him as the other patients squirmed in their seats and remained silent. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights above their heads.

“Nobody?” Charlie said. “Sam? Maybe you’d like to talk about how your first day went?”

Sam shook his head vehemently, keeping his eyes low.

“I guess I’ll go.” The quiet, accented voice came from Sam’s left, and the girl at his side--the one with the tube in her nose--reached a thin, pale hand out to take the talking stick from Charlie.

“That’s great, Bela,” Charlie said. “What’s on your mind today?”

Sam didn’t speak for the rest of the session. He alternated between listening in on the group conversation and spacing out into his own thoughts, and every once in a while he spared a glance at Cas on his right. Every time Sam looked over, Cas’s gaze was fixed intently on whomever was speaking, his bright blue eyes shining with empathy as he listened and occasionally spoke up to offer words of encouragement.

It was strange, Sam thought, how someone locked up in a mental hospital could still have so much _life_ in their eyes. While all the other patients glared at nothing and spoke in harsh, clipped tones, Cas smiled at everything and radiated an aura of warmth and acceptance that was rare even outside the walls of a psych ward.

Sam could only wonder, _How does someone like that end up somewhere like here?_

*

“Alright, why don’t we end by going around and stating our goals for the day?” Charlie said as the hour-long session drew to a close. “Who would like to start?”

An older woman seated across the circle from Sam began, and as it came closer and closer to his turn, he felt his anxiety spiking again. His heart was rapidly picking up speed by the time it came time for the girl to the left of him, Bela, to share.

“My goal is to finish one of my meals,” she said. Sam felt the attention of the room shift towards him again, and he sunk down in his chair slightly.

“Sam? Do you have a goal for the day?” Charlie prompted.

“Uh,” Sam stuttered, staring down at his feet. He wanted to just say “not really” and have the circle move on to Cas, but he knew that answer wouldn’t suffice. He racked his brain for something, anything to say, just so people could stop _looking at him._ “My goal is to… stay positive?”

“That’s a great goal, Sam,” Charlie grinned. “Castiel, what about you?”

_Stay positive. What bullshit_ , Sam thought, glaring down at the gauze on his left hand. He rubbed at the scar absently through the bandage, resisting the urge to press down and intentionally ruin his stitches again. How many times had he heard that in the past few months? From co-workers, from friends, from Dean-- _I know you’re having a hard time, Sam, but you just have to stay positive!_ Like it was the easiest thing in the world for him to just make himself be happy. Like it was so easy to just forget everything that had happened, that had brought him to this point.

Maybe if it was so easy, he wouldn’t have downed a bottle of pills.

After the last patient stated their goal for the day, the group dismissed, and the patients dispersed once again to their different corners of the rec room. But Sam stayed hunched over in his seat, staring at his hands, and he looked up only when a nurse named Anna walked over to him.

“Sam?” she asked gently. “Everything alright?”

He barely spared a glance up at her before lowering his gaze once more. “Fine.”

“If you’re sure,” she said, clearly unconvinced. “I came to tell you that Dr. Tran would like to see you in his office now.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Dr. Tran’s office was small, clean, and warm; unlike the rest of the building, the heater was on full-blast, and Sam sat across from the doctor’s desk in a big, cushioned chair that somehow managed to dwarf his six-foot-five frame. A stack of classical music CDs sat on the edge of Dr. Tran’s desk next to a photograph of himself and who Sam assumed to be his wife, and the room smelled faintly of cinnamon. If Sam didn’t know better, he would’ve said it was cozy. Except he did know better. The room felt more claustrophobic than anything.

“How was your first night, Sam?” Dr. Tran asked, folding his hands on top of his desk. A yellow legal pad was opened to a clean page beside his hands, and Sam stared at it in an attempt to avoid the doctor’s gaze.

“It was fine.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

“A little,” Sam lied.

“I started you on a low dose of Ambien last night for your insomnia,” Dr. Tran explained. “We can up the dosage if needed, but I’m hoping it’ll help with some of your sleeping problems.”

Sam didn’t reply, just ran his thumb over the gauze on his hand.

“And how is today going so far?” the doctor continued. “I imagine it might be a bit overwhelming trying to adjust.”

“It’s alright.”

A heavy silence fell between the two of them as Dr. Tran waited for an elaboration Sam wasn’t willing to give. Just like the day before when he’d been in there with Dean, he could hear the doctor’s wristwatch ticking. _Tick-tick-tick._

“You know,” Dr. Tran started slowly, “when I spoke to your brother yesterday, he seemed very worried about you.” Sam hummed lackadaisically. “He told me the two of you are very close.”

Sam hesitated before agreeing. “Yeah. We are.” It was the first true statement he’d made so far.

“That’s good to hear,” Dr. Tran said. “It’s important to have a good support system in your life, especially when you’re going through a hard time.” Sam shrugged.

“Besides your brother, who are the other important people in your life?” he continued. “Any more close family members, friends?”

“Not really,” Sam replied hollowly.

“What about co-workers? A girlfriend, boyfriend?”

Sam swallowed and pressed down on his stitches, but it wasn’t enough. He pressed harder, and a small dot of blood started to seep through the gauze.

“No,” he managed through grit teeth, grimacing against the pain in his hand. Even still, he continued to increase the pressure of his thumb against the stitches until his knuckles turned white. He needed the pain to distract him, to keep him from thinking about her, to keep him from remembering--

_Push it away. Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think._

“Sam?” Dr. Tran’s voice broke through his pain-muddled thoughts, and Sam noticed the doctor’s eyes fixed on his hand, the growing patch of red on the white bandages. Sam released his hold on his injured hand and sunk back into the cushioned chair, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Is everything alright?”

“Fine,” Sam muttered. “Everything’s fine.”

He barely heard Dr. Tran sigh. “I understand it’s difficult, opening up to a complete stranger,” the doctor started slowly. “Especially in an environment that feels as clinical and impersonal as I imagine it does here.”

Sam scoffed and thought, _Understatement._

“But I want to help you, Sam,” he continued. “And I can’t help you unless you’re completely honest with me. Otherwise, it’s just a waste of both our time.” Dr. Tran’s eyebrows were furrowed together in concern, his dark eyes full of genuine compassion. It made Sam uncomfortable, and he quickly looked back down to his feet.

_Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick._

“Have you ever journaled before?” Dr. Tran asked after a long moment of silence. Sam glanced up at him and blinked a few times before shaking his head hesitantly. “That’s alright. I want you to have this.”

Dr. Tran opened up one of his desk drawers and pulled out a small composition notebook, which he handed over to Sam along with a pen. Sam flipped idly through the empty pages before looking up at the doctor again.

“I want you to keep a journal while you’re here,” Dr. Tran explained. “Of course, I won’t make you, and there will be no repercussions if you don’t keep up with it. But I think it could be beneficial for you, even if you only write a few sentences a day. I won’t make you read it to me in our sessions or anything like that. This is just for you. Do you think you can do that?”

Sam nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“And, Sam,” Dr. Tran continued, “I encourage you to continue meeting and speaking with the other patients. A sense of community may be an important component in your recovery. I promise, they’re not all basket cases and lunatics.” He said the last statement with a small smile.

“Um. Okay.”

“Great.” Dr. Tran grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and Sam squirmed in his chair. He knew that look of pity all too well, and it made him want to scream. Or, more realistically, curl into a ball and hide. “Well, that’s all I have for today. I’ll check in with you periodically throughout the week to see how you’re doing. But if you need to talk to me sooner, don’t be afraid to come see me.”

“Okay,” Sam muttered.

“Until then...” Dr. Tran trailed off, and Sam followed his gaze down to the red patch on the palm of his bandaged hand. “I’ll find you a nurse so you can get some clean bandages.”

*

The rest of the day dragged along at a snail’s pace. Sam declined Cas’s offer to sit together at lunch and ate alone, picking at his food and keeping his head down. After lunch, he sat in a corner of the rec room and attempted to read one of the few books he’d brought that hadn’t been confiscated, but the words all jumbled together, like trying to read in a foreign language. He stared at the first page with bleary, unfocused eyes for an entire half-hour before he gave up and resorted to staring at his shoes.

At three in the afternoon, Sam followed the other patients into the phone room, a small space with several landline telephones attached to the walls. He stood in line for a while, trying not to eavesdrop on the other patients’ conversations. When his turn came to use the phone, he punched in Dean’s cell number with shaking fingers and waited anxiously as he listened to it ring once, twice--

“Hello?”

Sam let out a deep breath at the sound of his brother’s voice. “Hey, Dean. It’s me.”

“Sam? Hey, man!” Dean exclaimed. “I was hoping I’d hear from you soon. Hold on just a second.” The sound on the call became muffled as Dean placed his hand over the receiver and yelled, “ _Ben! Turn down the TV. I’m on the phone._ ” Dean removed his hand and spoke to Sam again, “How are things?”

Sam shifted on his feet and glanced over his shoulder. Several other patients still stood in line behind him for the phone, and a few of them stared back at him, impatient for him to finish his call. Sam swallowed and lowered his voice. “Everything’s fine.”

“Yeah?” Dean didn’t sound convinced. “You meet anyone else yet?”

“A few people, yeah,” Sam replied, desperate to get the subject off of himself. “What are you up to?”

Dean seemed to catch onto Sam’s discomfort, and Sam listened as Dean gratefully changed the subject, talking about his day at work, his plans for the night, Ben’s soccer game. There wasn’t much to talk about, really--it had only been a day since they saw each other, after all--but for a while, they managed to fill the silence with easy small-talk that somehow helped Sam to forget about where he was and why. It almost felt like old times, back when they would talk every weekend on the phone and go to each other’s houses for barbecues. Back when things were good and Sam was okay. Sam even laughed a few times; it felt like years since he had last laughed.

Ten minutes passed all too quickly, and soon, Anna the nurse was at Sam’s side, informing him that he only had one minute left on the phone. “Hey, Dean,” Sam said, interrupting Dean’s story about a guy he worked with. “I have to go now. Time’s up.”

“Oh,” Dean replied, sounding a bit disappointed. “Alright.”

“Yeah,” Sam sighed. “I’ll call again soon. Tell Lisa and Ben hi for me.”

“I will.”

“Bye, Dean.”

“See ya, Sammy.”

Sam hung the phone back up on the receiver and sighed, suddenly sucked back into the reality of his situation and where he was. Moving out of the way so the next patient could use the phone, he wrapped his arms around himself and trudged back to the rec room.

After the other patients finished their phone calls, the entire group came together once more for a “group activity,” but what that entailed, Sam couldn’t tell. The whole time, he sat on the edge of the group and stayed silent, staring at his feet and purposely tuning out the voices around him. Any time someone asked for his opinion or input on something, he simply shrugged and said, “I don’t know.” He was stuck in that haze, that numbness again, and with no intention of pulling himself out. It was easier than thinking--than facing reality.

Sam sat alone again at dinner, even though both Benny and Cas offered to sit with him. He stared blankly at the food on his plate and didn’t even try to eat; he knew he’d be sick if he did. The day nurses switched out with the night nurses, and Meg chastised him again for not eating, but Sam hardly heard her. He just shrugged and went back to the rec room, back to his corner.

Night fell, and the patients were herded into their individual rooms in a way that reminded Sam of prisoners being escorted to their cells by guards. One of the night nurses brought him his Ambien, which he took without too much complaint. The nurse left, and as the door clicked and locked behind him, Sam sat down on his cot and pulled out the notebook and pen Dr. Tran had given to him.

Sam opened it up and stared at the blank page for a few minutes, twirling the pen between his fingers and tapping his bare foot against the cold linoleum floor. After several moments of stillness, he finally uncapped the pen and wrote with a trembling hand:

_Day 2 of ~~imprisonment~~ treatment_

_We had group therapy today. I didn’t like it. Talked to Dean on the phone. It was fine but I think_

Before he could finish the sentence, the lights in his room flicked off automatically, leaving him encased in thick darkness. Sam closed his eyes and sighed.

He placed the notebook and pen on the floor next to his bed and crawled beneath the covers, prepared for another night of staring at the ceiling. However, several nights of sleeplessness had started to catch up with him, and combined with the effects of the Ambien, it became increasingly harder and harder for Sam to keep his eyes open. He struggled against the lure of sleep, but he wasn’t strong enough, and for the first time in days, he plummeted headfirst into unconsciousness.

*

_When Sam woke up, he was warm. From beneath the covers, he could feel his shirt sticking to his sweat-slick skin, and he groaned, kicking off the blankets with his eyes still closed._

_He rolled onto his stomach and burrowed his head into the pillow, still half-asleep, but even without the blanket over him, he could feel the room getting hotter. And there was something--some kind of noise, muffled and far-away sounding, almost like something crackling--_

_“Sam!_

_The familiar female voice pierced through Sam’s awareness, and he suddenly found himself completely awake. He shot up in his bed, eyes wide and searching for the source of the voice, but he was alone, the space in bed beside him empty. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, and from down the hall, the cry came again, more panicked this time--”Sam!”_

_In seconds, Sam was on his feet and sprinting down the hall, sweat dripping down his spine. The crackling had grown louder, the heat more oppressive, the smell of smoke burning at his nostrils as he ran up the stairs._

_“Sam, please, help me!”_

_“I’m coming!” he yelled up the stairs, but as he reached the landing, another flight of stairs appeared in front of him. He started up the second flight, taking the steps by threes in his haste to get to the woman crying out for him. By now, the heat was almost painful in its intensity, and he had to cough to keep the smoke from filling his lungs. The roar of the fire had become deafening, and he could barely hear the woman’s cries anymore._

_“Sam, please--hurry--”_

_“Jess, hold on!” Sam cried, coming upon a third set of stairs. This was wrong--this was so wrong. Where was she? What if he didn’t get there in time? What if he was too late?_

_“Sam!”_

_“I’m coming--”_

_“Sam!”_

“Sam! Wake up!”

A scream tore itself from Sam’s lungs as he thrashed wildly on the bed, tangling himself in the blankets he’d half-kicked off in his dream. He suddenly felt two hands on his shoulders, holding him down, and he fought futilely against the invisible attacker; his muscles felt like they weighed a ton each, and they moved languidly despite the sheer terror coursing through Sam’s veins.

“NO!” he cried, pushing the hands away from himself with weak arms. He felt something wet trickle down his cheeks, but he couldn’t tell if it was sweat or tears. He was hot, it was so fucking hot--

“Sam, you were just dreaming,” someone was saying. “You’re alright, but you need to calm down.” The voice sounded foggy and muffled, like Sam had cotton in his ears, and though he recognized the words, they didn’t completely register in his brain. He scooted away from the voice so that his back hit the wall and pulled his knees up to his chest.

Sam was crying now, face buried in his hands as he let out shaky, sobbing breaths. He was so, so tired--maybe he was still asleep; it felt like it--and he didn’t know where he was, who the hell was talking to him and telling him to calm down. Easy for them to say. They hadn’t heard Jess’s screams, they hadn’t smelled the smoke and burning flesh--

“Sam,” the voice said again, slightly clearer this time. Sam blinked his bleary eyes open, though it was too dark in his room to see much more than the figure of someone crouching at his bedside. They thankfully were no longer touching him, but they continued to speak in a low but firm voice. “Sam, take a deep breath, alright? You’re just fine.”

Garth. It was Garth, the night nurse. So Sam was still in the hospital. He wasn’t in that house, there was no fire. That house was long-gone now, anyway…

“What’s--why--” Sam sputtered, not even sure exactly what he was trying to ask.

“There you go. Deep breaths,” Garth continued. If Sam squinted, he could see the light on Garth’s digital watch flashing 2:48 a.m. “Do you need anything? Some water?”

Sam shook his head. _No. I don’t need water. I just need Jess._

“Jess,” Sam panted, his voice small, almost like a whimper.

“There’s no one named Jess here, Sam,” Garth said. “It was just a dream. You’re alright now. Just try and go back to sleep, alright?”

_No. Never. I’ll see her again if I do._ “O-okay.”

“Okay. If you need something, the other nurses and I’ll be right outside.” Garth stood at his bedside and walked over to the door, punching in the code. “Goodnight, Sam.” The door locked behind him, leaving Sam alone, shaking in the darkness once more.

The sweat was still drying on his skin when he finally got himself to move from the corner. Sam shuffled to the edge of his bed and reached down to the floor, grabbing the notebook and pen he’d left there. In the darkness, he uncapped the pen and scribbled blindly on the first page:

_I don’t want to take Ambien anymore._

He leaned with his back against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest again, and stared at the wall until morning.

 


	5. Chapter 5

When a nurse came to unlock Sam’s door the next morning, he trudged into the hall and immediately felt the weight of several pairs of eyes boring holes into his back. He pretended not to notice, focusing instead on brushing his teeth, eating breakfast, but it wasn’t enough to tune out the other patients’ whispers when he walked past. When someone _did_ speak directly to him, they spoke tentatively, with a low voice, like talking to a dog with a bad temper that could explode at any minute.

Apparently, the walls in the hospital weren’t as soundproof as Sam had hoped.

For the entire morning, the only person who didn’t treat Sam like some kind of ticking time bomb was Claire. After breakfast, as Sam was pushing in his chair and heading back to the rec room, she marched up to him and crossed her arms over her chest. “What the hell happened to you last night? You sounded like you were being murdered.”

Sam swallowed and avoided meeting her harsh gaze. It was amazing, he thought, how he could be intimidated by a young girl half his size. “Nothing,” he replied. “I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“Uh-huh. Whatever.” She rolled her eyes and turned on her heel, leaving him alone once more.

Tuesday meant that the patients spent the morning in art therapy, so after breakfast, Sam followed the rest of the group into a studio next door to the rec room. The room was more spread-out than other rooms in the ward, set up with several long tables all piled high with various art supplies and multi-colored paper. Sam sat down at an empty table and wrapped his arms around himself, fully prepared to spend the rest of the group alone. The other tables started to fill up with other patients grouping together, except for one: Cas.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asked, gesturing towards the chair across from Sam’s. His eyes were soft, bright, like always. It was nice to know that at least Cas didn’t look at him any differently.

“Go ahead,” Sam said, just as a woman with dark, short hair moved to the front of the room. Everyone turned to face her expectantly.

“Alright, everyone, let’s get started for today,” she said in a loud, clear voice.

“That’s Jody,” Cas whispered across the table to Sam. “She’s the art therapist.”

Sam nodded and turned to face the front, listening as Jody explained what they’d be doing. “Sometimes in life, it’s easy to get to a place where it seems like everything is bad,” she said, walking slow circles around the room. “Work sucks, school sucks, home sucks. Especially when we’re already going through a hard time, it can be easy to forget about all the good in our lives.”

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes

“Today,” she continued, “we’re going to make collages of things that make us happy. You can draw, paint, rip pictures out of magazines, anything you want. You can put people, places, things, ideas--anything as long as it’s something that makes you happy and has a positive influence on your recovery.”

“So Ruby’s poster will be covered in dicks,” Cole whispered at a table near Sam’s.

“I heard that, asshole,” Ruby snapped from across the room.

Jody rolled her eyes but otherwise ignored them. “Alright,” she said, clapping her hands together. “Let’s get started.”

Sam looked around the room as other patients started grabbing paper and art supplies from the various tables. Castiel took a piece of paper and a marker from the center of their table, and without any other ideas, Sam followed suit, grabbing a piece of blue construction paper and a red marker. He’d never been much of an artist, not very creative when it came to things like drawing, but he figured he could at least try. All around him, the other patients started in on their collages, but Sam could only stare at the blank piece of paper and twiddle the marker between his fingers.

_What makes me happy?_

He uncapped the marker and drew a crude attempt at a book, which ended up looking more like a rectangle with lines on one side than anything. _Books make me happy,_ he thought. _That’s something._

He stared at the paper again, already at a loss. He had books, but that wasn’t much. Why was this so hard?

Keeping his head down, Sam peered out of the corner of his eye over to Cas, who was hunched over his paper, intently drawing something Sam couldn’t see. He looked at the tables around him, and everyone else seemed to be engrossed in their collages, as well, none of them appearing to struggle with the assignment like Sam.

“Are you using the black marker?” Cas spoke up. Sam turned away from the rest of the room to face him again.

“Oh, uh, no,” Sam said. “You can use it.” Sam picked up the marker and handed it over to Cas, their fingers barely brushing in the exchange.

Sam watched as Cas uncapped the marker and started drawing again, but after a few moments, he paused and looked back up at Sam.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Everything alright?” Cas asked, glancing down at Sam’s almost-empty paper.

“Yeah, totally,” Sam replied quickly, a reflex. “I’m just, uh… I can’t really think of anything.”

“If you’d like,” Cas said, “you can look at mine for ideas.”

Sam nodded hesitantly. He didn’t want to intrude on something that Cas might consider personal, but then again, he’d been the one to offer. “Okay. Sure.”

Cas smiled and handed over his collage, which was already almost entirely covered in drawings, each of them labeled in Cas’s neat script. Sam held the paper out in front of him and looked over each picture: a simple doodle of a flower and a honeybee resting on one of its petals, labeled “nature”; several stick figures, some male and some female, labeled “family”; a sandwich with “PB&J” written by its side (Sam managed a small laugh at that one); a pointy-eared cartoon cat labeled “Artemis.”

“You have a cat named Artemis?” Sam asked.

Cas grinned. “Yes. My brother, Gabriel, is watching her while I’m away.”

“I like her name.”

“Thank you.”

Sam glanced over the remaining drawings--a music note, little waves representing the ocean, and finally, a cross.

“I didn’t know you were religious,” Sam commented, glancing up at Cas again.

“Well, I was named after an angel,” Cas replied with a small smile. “As were all of my siblings.”

“Castiel is the name of an angel?”

“Yes. The angel of Thursday.”

“I didn’t realize Thursday was so special it got its own angel,” Sam chuckled.

Cas shrugged. “I suppose it was deemed necessary. But, yes, you could say I’m ‘religious.’ I was in seminary and preparing to become a priest before I was admitted here. I suppose I’ll return once I’m released.”

Sam raised his eyebrows at that, slightly surprised. Could this guy be any more of an enigma? What could an aspiring priest do to land himself a spot in a psych ward? “Oh. That’s cool, I guess.”

“Yes,” Cas smiled. “It’s what I was called to do.”

Sam held Cas’s bright gaze for a moment, as if that could somehow help him better understand the strange man. He only snapped out of his thoughts when Cas asked, “What do you do, Sam? What’s your life’s calling?”

“Um,” Sam cleared his throat, mindlessly playing with one of the markers. “I dunno. I studied law in college.”

“You’re a lawyer?”

“Not exactly,” Sam grimaced. He debated telling Cas about how he ended up dropping out and moving back to Kansas to take care of his then-alcoholic brother, but he figured Cas didn’t want to hear his sob story anymore than the next person. “Before I got... admitted, I worked at a library. Mostly just organizing books and stuff like that. I guess I like it okay.” He shrugged. “I don’t know if I really have a ‘life’s calling.’”

“I’m sure you do,” Cas said. “You just haven’t found it yet.”

Sam shrugged again, doubtful. “Maybe.”

“God has great plans in store for you, Sam,” Cas replied.

Sam looked around the room at the other patients, then down at the paper bracelet around his wrist, bearing his name and patient number. “Yeah, that much is apparent,” he mumbled sarcastically.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Cas reiterated. “Trust me.”

Sam stared at Cas, his blue eyes wide with conviction, and felt something stutter in his chest. _Why should I trust you?_ He wanted to ask. _How do you know what God has planned for me?_ Hell, he didn’t even know if he _believed_ in a God. But Sam didn’t have the heart to say that--not with Cas looking at him with such hope in his eyes, such strong belief in what he was saying, and nothing but the best of intentions. Instead, Sam just managed a half-smile and muttered, “So I’ve heard,” looking back to the paper in front of him.

After a long moment, he handed Cas his drawing back. “Thanks for letting me look at that.”

“Of course,” Cas said. “I hope it was helpful.”

It was. Sort of. By the time Jody announced their time was coming to a close, Sam had added three more drawings to his paper: a stick figure that was supposed to be Dean, but was really nothing more than a smiley face inside a circle; a childish doodle of a dog, not to represent any specific animal in Sam’s life but just dogs in general; and, after a long moment of consideration, another stick figure, this one with long waves of hair and a little triangle skirt. Jess.

According to Cas, the group usually ended with everyone going around and presenting what they’d made to the group, but to Sam’s relief, they ran out of time before they could get to Sam. He wasn’t sure what he would’ve said, anyway--”Here’s a dog, and here’s a book, here’s my brother, and here’s my dead girlfriend?” There was no way he could get that out without breaking down, he knew, and of all the things he wanted to do while he was here, crying in front of a room full of strangers was not one of them.

When they left the art room at the end of the group, Jody announced that everyone could do whatever they wanted with their collages, though she suggested holding onto them for “inspiration,” whatever the hell that meant. Sam rolled his eyes on the way out of the room and tossed his collage into the trash can before heading to the rec room.

*

It was right after lunch when Sam heard the alarm sound.

He’d been in the middle of a game of Sorry! with Cas, and they simultaneously looked up from the board to meet each other’s eyes as the shrieking of an alarm continued from outside the rec room. Along with everyone else in the rec room, they stood from their chairs and rushed to the door to see the commotion in the hallway.

A group of several nurses, as well as two security guards that Sam had seen once or twice were huddled around the front door that separated the ward from the outside world. A red light beside the door was flashing in time with the shrieking of the alarm, and amid the chaos, Sam could barely make out a few voices above it all.

“Get your fucking hands off me!” cried a female voice that Sam immediately recognized. Claire. As soon as they heard her voice, several patients grumbled and moved back to their seats in the rec room, suddenly disinterested. Sam and Cas lingered in the hallway, though, Sam staring wide-eyed at the scene in front of him.

From the middle of the crowd broke through the two security guards, each holding onto one of Claire’s arms as they escorted her down the hallway. Her entire body writhed and squirmed violently in their grips, her legs kicking at their shins and nails clawing at their skin as she continued to scream. “ _Let go of me!_ I’ll fucking kill you, I swear to God--” The security guards seemed completely unphased, easily overpowering her wiry teenage body and carrying her with looks on their faces as if it was just another day at the office. Several nurses followed after them while another punched in a code to turn off the alarm.

“You can’t do this to me,” Claire continued, and even from halfway down the hall, Sam could tell she was crying now, her throat raw from screaming. By the time she and the security guards and nurses disappeared into a secured room at the end of the hall, she was still kicking with all her might, swinging her fists in futile attempts to hit the guards dragging her away.

The door locked behind them, and the ward fell silent once again.

Sam looked to Castiel for some kind of answer, his eyes wide in terror, but Cas only shook his head and frowned, his brow knit in concern. The other patients had all returned to the rec room and were back to their regular activities, and Sam followed Cas back to their table, his mouth hanging open in shock.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded, Claire’s screams still echoing in his ears.

“She must have tried to escape again,” Cas sighed, shaking his head.

“Escape?”

“She tries every couple of weeks or so,” Cas explained. “She’ll somehow learn the code to the front door, and try to escape when nobody’s looking. She’s never made it past the parking lot.”

“Where did they take her?” Sam asked, staring into the now-empty hall where she had been only moments earlier.

“Probably Isolation.”

Sam turned back to face Cas at that, his brows pursed. “Isolation? What’s that? Like, solitary confinement?”

“It’s comparable to solitary confinement, I suppose, yes,” Cas nodded. “It’s where the patients who are behaviorally or emotionally unstable are taken. Sometimes only for a few hours, sometimes for a week.”

“They shouldn’t be allowed to do that,” Sam muttered. “Just lock you away from everyone else. That’s not gonna make anyone feel better.”

“They can do anything they want here, Sam,” Cas replied, his voice solemn.

Sam blinked and turned once more to stare at the door to the rec-room. The nurses had all returned to their daily tasks as if nothing had happened, the patients playing cards and reading books completely undisturbed. He rubbed his hands up and down his goosebumped arms.

“It’s sad, really,” Cas continued with a sigh. “She’s such a bright girl, but she has so much anger. She thinks that running will get her out of here sooner, but really, all they do is tack on more days to her stay.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, but he wasn’t really listening anymore. Instead, Cas’s previous words rang through his ears, making something inside him clench with both fear and anger. _They can do anything they want here, Sam._

*

That night, after Sam brushed his teeth and trudged into his bedroom, the nurse came to bring him his Ambien. “Here you go, Sam,” she said cheerily, holding out the cup of water and cup of pills. But instead of taking them, Sam just took his head.

“No,” he said, memories of the night before flashing in his mind. The nightmare, the fear, the paralysis as he tried to move but was held down by the Ambien’s effects. He wouldn’t do that again. He’d rather not sleep.

“Sam,” the nurse said, her voice slightly sharper. “You have to take your medicine now.”

“No,” Sam repeated, crossing his arms over his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d said ‘no’ to anyone so adamantly, and it made his heart pound just to think that he was saying no to someone who was technically an authority figure. But he had to do this.

“You know, we have to inform your doctor if you refuse to take medication,” she warned, but Sam didn’t give in.

“I don’t care. I’m not taking it.”

The nurse sighed and set the two cups down on Sam’s bedside table, pulling a clipboard from under her arm and marking something down. “Get some sleep, Sam,” she said coldly before grabbing the cups again and leaving him alone in his room.

Sam pulled his composition book and pen out from under the bed as the door shut behind her and opened it up to the first page. Beneath his writings from the night before, he dated the entry _Day 3_. Then he wrote a single sentence:

_I have to get out of here._

 


	6. Chapter 6

“So, Sam,” Dr. Tran began as Sam tried to make himself comfortable in the big cushioned chair he’d grown rather acquainted with over the course of his past few visits. “You’ve been here almost five days, you’re starting to get into the swing of things. What do you think so far?”

Sam stared at Dr. Tran with narrowed eyes, searching the doctor’s face for any sign of irony or sarcasm. Surely, he couldn’t be serious. This guy had completed medical school and had a PhD; he wasn’t an idiot. But he was sure starting to sound like one, from where Sam sat.

What did he think so far? What could Sam even say in response to that? Obviously, he could lie. He could paint on that smile he’d mastered over the past few years and chirp, “It’s really not so bad. I love the art therapy program, and everyone is so nice!” But then again, Dr. Tran wasn’t an idiot, no matter how stupid his questions were, and he’d surely see right through Sam’s forced attempt at optimism.

So maybe he could go the sarcastic, cynical route. “It’s just great, Dr. Tran. I love being forced to live in a hospital full of wackadoos and people who all pretend to give a shit about my situation or my feelings. And even better is all the basic human rights that are taken away from me on a daily basis. It’s spectacular!” Honestly, that was the option that sounded most enticing to Sam right now. Maybe he couldn’t get the nurses and doctors to leave him alone, and maybe he’d still be stuck here for who-knew-how-long, but at least everyone would know he hated every minute of it. It was amazing how much bitterness had built up inside him in the course of five days.

But then again, Sam wasn’t a child, and he wasn’t about to throw a fit, no matter how much he wished he could tell off every person that worked for this nightmare of a hospital. Whatever little dignity he retained kept him from stooping that low--and besides, the less cooperative he was, the less likely he’d be to get let out of this place anytime soon.

He could tell the truth--be brutally honest but not immature, either. He could tell Dr. Tran that he felt suffocated, dehumanized, that he wanted to go home and that nothing they’d done here seemed to be helping. A part of him felt like the doctor already knew all that. Sam couldn’t have been the only patient to ever feel this way. Surely someone over the years had told Dr. Tran how flawed the system was.

And yet, Sam didn’t do any of that. His options whirled through his mind during the few seconds of silence in which Dr. Tran watched him, waiting for an answer. But he couldn’t make himself say any of it. It wasn’t like it mattered what he said, anyway. At the end of the day he’d still be stuck here, just another patient, another list of prescriptions and diagnoses, a prisoner.

“I don’t know,” he finally said with a noncommittal shrug. Dr. Tran didn’t move, just continued to watch him expectantly as if waiting for Sam to elaborate, but he didn’t. Finally, Dr. Tran sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” the doctor said, folding his hands across his desk. “But as you’ve probably noticed, the first few days are the hardest. It’s all uphill from here.”

Sam scoffed. He doubted it.

“Have you been keeping up with that journal I gave you?” Dr. Tran asked. Sam was glad for the change of subject.

“A little bit,” he replied. At least that was true. He’d written a bit in the journal every day, even if it was just a sentence or two. He wasn’t sure why he did it, since it seemed pretty redundant for him to have a personal catalogue of his own thoughts and feelings, especially since Dr. Tran wasn’t going to read or psychoanalyze any of it. But he did, and the doctor seemed pleased to hear that.

“That’s great,” Dr. Tran smiled. “I encourage you to keep with it throughout your stay here. It really can be very beneficial to your own growth and recovery. Many people find it to be rather cathartic, and less awkward than talking to a therapist.”

Sam nodded and ran his thumb over the gauze on his hand, pressing lightly against the stitches in his palm. He looked up and noticed Dr. Tran’s eyes trained on his hands, watching as he played with the fresh gauze that Sam had been given a few hours earlier after he tore his stitches once again. At the feeling of Dr. Tran’s gaze, Sam quickly stopped his actions and crossed his arms over his chest.

“The nurses’ report says that you’ve refused to take your Ambien three nights in a row,” Dr. Tran started up again as it became clear Sam didn’t have anything else to say on the journaling topic. “What’s going on there?” he asked, concern clear across his face.

Sam kept his eyes low, focusing on his shoes instead. He already felt like a little kid being scolded for not doing their homework, and he knew making eye contact with Dr. Tran would only increase that feeling of having done something wrong. “I didn’t like it,” he said simply. “It made me too tired.”

“It’s supposed to make you tired,” Dr. Tran said. “It may feel like a lot at first, but the longer you take it, the more your body will adjust to its effects, and then it can truly start working.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Did you experience any side effects? Nausea, headache, dizziness?”

“Yes,” Sam lied. “I was, uh, dizzy. And really tired all day. Like I couldn’t wake up.” That part was true enough. He shuddered slightly as he thought about seeing Jess in his sleep, about the fire and hearing her screams and not being able to wake up, to pull himself out of the dream. It had been like drowning, knowing he needed air and trying his hardest to swim to the surface but only being pushed down further and further by the current.

“Most people find that those side effects go away after a week or so of taking Ambien,” Dr. Tran said. “It may be uncomfortable for a few days, but I truly think the benefits outweigh any--”

“I just don’t want to take it,” Sam snapped, catching both himself and Dr. Tran off guard. Dr. Tran concealed his surprise well, though, and simply nodded, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Alright, Sam. Maybe we can try something else,” he said simply. “What about your Zoloft? Have you noticed any side effects there?” Sam shook his head. “Good. I’ll probably up your dosage sometime next week. Let me know if you start to feel any nausea or change in appetite.”

“Okay,” Sam said, squirming in his chair.

“There’s something else I wanted to ask you about,” Dr. Tran said, a notable change to his voice that Sam couldn’t quite place. Sam let out a quiet sigh of irritation; Dr. Tran was making that face again--dark eyes wide, brows pushed together, like he was staring at some kind of lost, kicked puppy rather than at a human being. “Garth told me what happened the other night,” Dr. Tran began slowly. “He said you were screaming in your sleep.”

Sam immediately felt all the blood rush from his face, and he clenched his hands into fists, digging his fingernails into the stitches on his left palm. He glared down at his feet, trying to focus on anything but what Dr. Tran was saying.

“Sam,” Dr. Tran said, “who is Jess?”

Sam squeezed his eyes closed. _Breathe,_ he screamed at himself internally. _Fucking breathe. Don’t cry, don’t think, don’t think._

“Sam?” Dr. Tran prompted gently. “Are you alright?”

_No,_ Sam wanted to shout. _No, I’m not fucking okay, I haven’t been okay in so goddamn long. I want out of here. I want to go home. And stop fucking_ looking _at me like that._

But Dr. Tran just stared. And stared. And waited. After a too-long moment of silence, Sam swallowed and opened his mouth, forcing out the words as quietly as he could. “Jess was my fiancee,” he murmured.

Dr. Tran nodded thoughtfully. “I see. Do you dream of her often?” Sam hesitantly nodded. “And when did these dreams start?”

Sam’s eyes burned with tears that he desperately tried to force away. “Two years ago.” His voice came out hoarse, cracked, broken. Just like him.

“Right about the time you started struggling with your insomnia,” Dr. Tran deduced. Leaning forward slightly in his seat, he met Sam’s gaze and held it. “Sam, what happened two years ago?”

Sam shifted in his seat and looked away from the doctor’s penetrating gaze. “Can I please leave?” he croaked.

“I won’t keep you much longer,” Dr. Tran assured him. “I know this is difficult for you to talk about, Sam. But the more honest you are with me, the more I’ll be able to help you. Please help me to understand.”

Sam shook his head, his hands shaking as he pressed down on his stitches with his thumb. His hand was bleeding, staining the brand new gauze only hours after he got it replaced.

“She died,” he said simply, unable to form a deeper explanation. Just forcing out those two words felt like the equivalent of running a marathon, and Sam didn’t have the energy or motivation to go any further.

Dr. Tran nodded and let out a quiet exhale, letting a heavy silence fall between them so that the only sound that Sam could hear was the ticking of Dr. Tran’s wristwatch, ticking in time with the pounding of his heart in his chest. Sam felt sick, like he could pass out any minute, and his breath was coming in shallow gasps. Dr. Tran was obviously waiting for Sam to elaborate, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

“I’ll let you go so you’re not late for CBT group,” Dr. Tran said finally, breaking the suffocating silence. Sam nodded, staring at his feet with hollow eyes. “Thank you for opening up to me, Sam. I hope you enjoy getting to see your brother at visitation tomorrow. I’ll visit with you next week.”

Sam nodded again, and infinitesimal movement, before standing up and walking out of Dr. Tran’s office on leaden legs. He stared at his shoes as he walked down the hall back to the rec room, where the other patients were beginning to set up for the second group of the day. He took a seat in a chair in the far corner of the room, his shoulders hunched, and tried to tune out all the voices around him. When Cas approached and asked if Sam wanted to sit with him, Sam only shook his head without looking up.

Sam stayed quiet for the rest of the day. He ate dinner alone. He sat in silence while the other patients played games and watched movies in the rec room. He brushed his teeth alone and went to bed, speaking only once to tell the nurse he wouldn’t be taking his Ambien. When the lights automatically flicked off, he didn’t bother crawling beneath the covers; he just sat on his bed, knees pulled up to his chest, and waited for sunrise.

He didn’t once close his eyes throughout the night. He knew he’d see her face if he did.

*

_Day 5_

_Jess,_

_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

The next day, after eating lunch with Castiel and Bela, one of the daytime nurses led Sam along with the other patients into a room near the back of the building in which Sam had never been. The room was set up with rows of small tables big enough to seat two people, and in the corner, a small shelf was lined with old board games similar to the ones found in the rec room. Each patient took a seat at their own table, and Sam chose one near the door, sitting down in one of the two chairs and nervously bouncing his leg as he watched the clock.

At 12:30, the guests started filtering in. Sam watched as they walked in with smiles on their faces and gravitated towards whichever patient they were visiting: a young, dark-haired woman kissed Benny on the lips when she came to sit across from him; a woman with a baby in one arm and a toddler holding her other hand sat down across from Cole; an old, short man with circles under his eyes sat down at Ruby’s table. Sam watched with a small smile as the patients began visiting with their families, their faces alight with a genuine joy Sam hadn’t seen in any of them apart from Castiel since his admission.

Suddenly remembering his friend, Sam peered around the room, looking for the familiar blue eyes and messy hair that belonged to Castiel, but he came up short, unable to find him anywhere in the room.

“Sam?”

Sam whirled around in his chair, and a large smile broke across his face at the sight of Dean in the doorway, wearing his signature smirk and leather jacket. Jumping up from his seat, Sam pulled Dean in for a tight hug which his brother returned in earnest, patting his back and holding him close.

“Man, it’s good to see you,” Dean said, pulling away from the hug to sit down at the table across from Sam. “I know it’s only been a week, but--”

“It feels like forever,” Sam finished for him, and Dean nodded. “It’s good to see you, too. Really, you have no idea.”

“Sorry I’m a little late,” Dean apologized, shrugging out of his jacket and resting it on the table. “Ben had a soccer game this morning, and Lisa was busy with work, so I had to go. He wanted to come visit with me, but I figured it’d probably best if I just came this time. I hope that’s okay with you.”

“No, yeah,” Sam nodded, glad that it was just Dean. As much as he loved his nephew, the last thing he wanted was for Ben to see him in a place like this, with a paper band around his wrist and his hands wrapped in gauze. “You can just tell him I say hi. Lisa, too.”

“Yeah, course.” Dean let out a sigh, looking around the room at the blank walls and the other patients all dressed exactly the same as Sam. “So. What’s it like here? I mean, I know you told me a little on the phone, but…”

Sam let out a deep breath and sagged back slightly in his chair. “It’s…” he began, struggling for the right words. _It’s great? It’s horrible? It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me and I resent you for sending me here?_ None of them sounded right, no matter how true they were. “I miss home.”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded, as if he understood. “It’s weird not having you around. I’m glad you’re here, though, as sucky as it is. I think it’ll be good for you,” Dean said, repeating the exact same thing he’d been saying ever since the day Sam got admitted. “What kind of stuff do you do around here, anyway?”

Sam sighed, shrugging slightly. “Well, we get up at five-thirty. Except today they let us sleep in till six-thirty. So that was exciting.” Dean chuckled. “And, uh, well… On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays in the morning we have group therapy. Which is kind of like those AA meetings I went to with you, just a lot more awkward. They have a talking stick.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose. “A talking stick? Like in kindergarten?”

Sam laughed. “That’s exactly what I thought. Yeah. And then on Tuesdays and Thursdays, we have art therapy, which isn’t too bad, I guess. Just a lot of drawing. Then we have free time, and then CBT group, which is Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. I think it’s kind of stupid, but… Yeah. Sometimes we do yoga and meditation stuff like that. Talk to our therapists. We play a lot of really shitty board games.”

Dean nodded slowly. “Huh.”

In the brief pause that followed, Sam considered saying a multitude of things, but what came out was a quiet plead, softer and more broken than Sam had intended. “Dean,” he said, leaning forward in his chair so that only Dean could hear. “You’ve gotta get me out of here, man.”

Sam could see Dean clenching his jaw, could see the visible shift in his demeanor. “Sam,” Dean sighed. “You know I can’t do that.”

“You can,” Sam pushed, growing more and more desperate. “Since they don’t have a court order to keep me here, all you have to do is sign some papers and check me out. I can go back home and we can just forget any of this ever happened.”

“I’m not checking you out, Sam. Not until they release you.”

“I don’t belong here,” Sam hissed under his breath. “These people, they’re crazy. This one guy thinks he’s the King of Hell, and this girl tried to break out and they put her in isolation, Dean, like a fucking prison. No one here actually gives a shit about me. They just want to dope me up on medication and make me pretend to act normal.”

“That’s not true, Sam. You’re overreacting.” He glanced over his shoulder self-consciously; some of the other patients were looking in their direction now.

“It is true,” Sam insisted, feeling himself start to tear up. _Do not cry,_ he screamed at himself. _Don’t let Dean see you cry._ “I get why you put me here, okay? And I tried. I did. But it’s been a week and I can’t do it. I have to get out of here or I’m going to end up actually going crazy.”

“Sam.”

“Please, Dean,” he said, his voice cracking.

Dean leaned back in his chair, his resolve unwavering. He looked at Sam with the stern firmness of a parent, the way he had since they were kids any time Sam wanted something he couldn’t have, and not for the first time in the past week, Sam felt like he was so small, the rest of the world looking down on him. “No, Sam.”

Sam swallowed, his shoulders sagging. The lump in his throat was growing, the urge to press against his stitches and rip them open stronger with each passing second. He stared at a scratch in the table, unable to meet his brother’s eyes anymore.

“I want you to get better, okay?” Dean continued with a sigh. “And if I have to force you to stay here in order for that to happen, then so be it. I don’t like you being here any more than you do. I just want my little brother back, alright?”

Sam barely managed a nod, eyes still fixed on the tabletop. They sat in silence for much too long before Dean finally spoke again, his voice strained

“You wanna play a card game or something?”

*

Sam didn’t talk much for the rest of the visiting hours. Neither did Dean. They played a few quiet games of poker, and Dean told a few stories about his week while Sam half listened, but other than that, the rest of the afternoon was spent trying to avoid the obvious fact that neither of them wanted to be there. When the nurse came in at 3:30 to announce that visiting hours were over, they both stood slowly from their table and stared at each other for a moment.

“It was good to see you, Sammy,” Dean said after a while, his voice quiet. “I’ll see you again next weekend.”

“Yeah,” was all Sam said. After another beat of awkward silence, Dean pulled him into a tentative hug, which Sam hesitantly returned, resting his hands lightly over Dean’s back.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Dean muttered into Sam’s ear as he held him close.

Sam considered saying “It’s okay,” but it wasn’t, so he stayed quiet. A few minutes later, Dean left the building with the rest of the guests, and Sam trudged back into the rec room, arms wrapped tightly around himself.

Before Sam could even reach a chair to sit down in, a chipper voice greeted him, “Hello, Sam. How was your visit?”

Sam turned to see Castiel standing behind him, a pleasant smile on his face. He cocked his head slightly to the side, waiting for Sam’s response.

“Uh,” he began shakily. “Uh, it was fine. How was yours?”

“Oh, I didn’t have any visitors,” Cas replied, still smiling. “I just spent the afternoon in the courtyard. I found a beehive. It was quite interesting to watch.”

“Oh,” Sam said slowly, eyeing Cas up and down.

“Would you like to sit with me?” Cas said, gesturing to a couch nearby. Sam nodded and took a seat on one end of the couch while Cas sat down beside him. Sam watched Cas out of the corner of his eye, the way he crossed his legs and relaxed into the couch, still smiling at nothing. _What the hell does this man have to be so happy about?_

“Why are you always doing that?” Sam blurted before he could think better of himself.

Cas turned to face Sam, head slightly cocked. “Doing what?”

Sam swallowed, already regretting having said anything. “Smiling. You always look so… happy.”

Cas’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. “Is that… wrong?”

“No, no, of course not,” Sam backtracked, mentally face-palming himself for bringing it up in the first place. “I’m sorry. I’m just… curious, I guess.”

“Why wouldn’t I be happy?” Cas asked, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

Sam shrugged, looking down to his feet. “I dunno. You’re in a psych ward, for one thing. Obviously you’re here for some reason, and I doubt that reason is that you’re happy all the time. It’s probably something a lot less… I dunno, Disney. And you didn’t have any visitors. That’s pretty much the only reason I’ve made it through this whole week was to get to visiting day, and it didn’t even turn out that great.”

“My siblings are all very busy,” Cas explained, as if it answered any of Sam’s questions. “I’m sure they’ll find the time to visit me soon.”

Sam shook his head. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer my question. I just don’t get how you can always be so… positive.”

Cas exhaled slowly, glancing around the room for a brief minute before standing up. “Come on,” he said to Sam. “We have a few minutes before CBT group starts. I want to show you something.”

Puzzled, Sam slowly stood and followed Cas out of the rec room. Cas led him down the hall and to a doorway that led outside to the courtyard. He held the door open for Sam and followed him out into the warm afternoon air. “Aren’t we supposed to have a nurse out here with us or--” Sam started, but Cas waved his hand dismissively.

“We’ll only be a moment, I promise,” Cas said. He led Sam to a small bench among the courtyard, beneath a large oak tree, and sat down, gesturing for Sam to do the same. Once they were comfortably seated on the bench, Cas raised his hand and pointed to another tree a few feet away. “Do you see it?”

Nestled between some of the branches in the tree was a beehive, complete with several bees buzzing around and crawling in and out of it. Sam nodded slowly, glancing at Cas out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, I see it. So?”

“Bees are simple creatures, Sam,” Cas began slowly, like a grandfather imparting wisdom onto a younger generation. “They don’t question why they do what they do. They live with only two goals in their small minds: to serve their Queen, and to make honey. They’re born, they do their jobs, and they die. That’s all.

“Humans aren’t so different. We’re born, we live an indeterminate but relatively short amount of time, we do a few things, and we die, usually before we feel our time has come. But we complicate things by constantly asking why. Why am I here? Why am I the way that I am? Why do things have to be this way?

“I find meaning,” Cas continued, “through God. I understand my purpose is to serve Him, and that makes me happy. I don’t have any worries because I trust Him to watch over me. But not everyone lives with religion, and that’s alright, too. You can find happiness within yourself by finding peace with your surroundings, trusting that where you are now is where you’re meant to be and that things will fall into place accordingly.”

“But I can’t do that, Cas,” Sam insisted. “I’m not like that. And I don’t belong here. I can’t--”

“That’s your trouble, Sam,” Cas said calmly. “You believe that you’re so different from all of us because you aren’t crazy. But many of the people here would say the same thing of themselves. God has plans for all of us, no matter who we are or where we find ourselves. He has plans for you.”

“I don’t know if I believe that,” Sam muttered.

“You don’t have to,” Cas said, standing from the bench and turning to look Sam square in the eye. “But you have two options while you’re here. You can either fight against everything, and make yourself miserable. Or you can accept where you are and try to learn and grow.” He reached out and rested his hands lightly on Sam’s shoulders, making Sam tense for a brief moment before he relaxed into the touch.

“Be like the bees, Sam,” Cas said. “Be like the bees.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is based in part on my own experiences in a psych ward. Please read the warnings and do not read if you think this may be triggering to you.


End file.
